In all the pleasances where Love was lord,

Blossom the mournful immortelles alone;

The fallen roses crumble, and are blown,

A snow of red, about the barren sward.

The misty sun is grown a dimmer gold:

Only the leaves, the leaves forever seem

To tell and treasure, in a gorgeous dream,

The aureate fervour of the dawns of old.

Only for us remains the memory

Of sultry moons and summer suns that were;

And we have found, where fallen roses stir,

The immortelles that flower mournfully.